Luck in the Shadows n-1 Page 7

  "Who?"

  "The drysian. What do you make of her?"

  "She seemed like any of the others. Sort of—" He paused, seeking the proper word.

  "Unsettling?"

  "Yes, that's it. Not frightening, just unsettling."

  "Believe me, drysians can be pretty damn frightening when they choose to." Before he could expound on the subject, however, the latch lifted and Erisa herself slipped quietly in.

  "I thought you'd keep the poor lad at it all night," she scolded. "I suspect you're not really in need of my ministrations?"

  Seregil shrugged, grinning crookedly. "I could hardly expect to fool you. Alec, run down to the kitchen, will you? We both need something to eat after all that ale, and I'm certain Erisa's had no time for supper."

  "Just tea and a little bread for me," said Erisa, folding her arms. Clearly they were both waiting for him to leave.

  Ordered about again! he thought as the door closed firmly behind him. He was more intrigued than irritated, however. This drysian must be the mysterious «she» spoken of by the blind man, but who was the hooded swordsman?

  Halfway down the passage he hesitated, then crept back as silently as he could to the door.

  "A force of fifty was reported heading into the Western Barrens above Wyvern Dug," Erisa was saying. "Connel spotted them near Enly Ford on the seventh of Erasin, but there's been no sign of them since."

  "I can understand them courting the mountain lords and trying to get a hold on the Gold Road," said Seregil, "but there's nothing in that direction but a few barbaric tribes. What in the world are they after up there?"

  "That's what Connel hoped to learn. He set out to follow them as soon as we heard what was going on. Unfortunately, nothing's been heard from him, either—Alec, please do hurry with my tea."

  An unpleasant tingling sensation that had nothing to do with the burning of his cheeks engulfed Alec briefly as he hurried downstairs. He took his time heating the water, dreading having to face her again. When he returned to the room, however, she simply thanked him and took her leave.

  "Well now, this is a good enough bed, but only wide enough for one. Where are you going to sleep?" Seregil yawned, stripping off his tunic. Apparently he had nothing to say on the subject of Alec's

  eavesdropping.

  "As your apprentice, I guess I'd be expected to sleep in the stable," Alec ventured, not relishing the prospect.

  "You're thinking like a tinker's brat. What good would you be to me out there? Your place is in front of the door in case we have any visitors in the night. Make yourself a pallet."

  As they settled down to sleep, Alec found himself thinking of the drysian again.

  "Have you known her long?" he asked, looking up into the darkness.

  "Erisa? Oh, yes."

  It became evident after a moment's silence that Seregil considered this sufficient reply. Alec decided to press on. "How did you meet her?"

  For a moment he thought Seregil had gone to sleep or was refusing to answer, but then he heard the bed ropes creak.

  "I had business at Alderis," Seregil told him. "That's in Mycena, near the coast. It was a difficult job and I was new at my trade, very young. Anyway, I botched it and got caught. My captors expressed their displeasure most emphatically and discarded what was left of me rather far from the town. They thought I was dead; I remember having a few doubts on the matter myself. When I woke up several days later, I was in a hut and there was Erisa."

  "I'll bet she has powers beyond just healing," Alec said, remembering the sharp tingle from her staff.

  "She can control people if she chooses. I've seen her do it, though she dislikes the power for the most part. I'll tell you something, though. She's saved my life several times, and I hers, but I'm a little nervous around her. You seldom know what a drysian's thinking, or how they see things."

  "She knew I was listening."

  Seregil chuckled in the darkness. "She'd have known if still was listening. Don't worry, you do it very well for a beginner. Now you'd better get some rest. We have a busy day tomorrow. You need outfitting, and I want a good look at those soldiers."

  Alec heard the bed creak again. Below their window, waves lapped softly at the pilings, lulling him into a comfortable doze. He was just drifting off when Seregil's sudden laugh startled him awake again.

  "And you've got us singing for the mayor!"

  5 Friends Met, Enemies Made

  Alec sat up blinking as Seregil threw open the shutters early the next morning. Cold air and early sunlight flooded the room. "I doubt you'd have heard a prowler in the night, but you blocked the door nicely," Seregil observed, tucking his harp under his arm. "While you've been snoring the morning away, I've been thinking. Your idea of singing for the mayor was an inspiration. That's where this Boraneus fellow is staying, after all. I have a few things to attend to at the market. Find yourself something to eat and meet me there later so we can see about getting you properly outfitted. Look for me at the swordsmith Maklin's in an hour if you don't see me sooner. Now out of my way!"

  As soon as he was gone Alec rose and pulled on his boots. Outside, the sun shone across the calm surface of the lake, shimmering around the distant sails that dotted the waters to the horizon.

  Anxious as he was to catch up with Seregil, the scents of porridge and frying sausage that met him as he hurried downstairs were too good not to investigate.

  "You're the bard's 'prentice, ain't you?" a woman asked as he paused in the doorway. "Come in, lad! Your master was just here and said I was to see you have all you want."

  Seregil must have been generous, Alec thought as she piled his trencher with plump sausages and oat porridge, then fetched a pitcher of milk and some hot ash cakes to go with it.

  "However did you get so thin with a master as kind as that, eh?" She smiled, watching with satisfaction as Alec tucked in to her cooking.

  "He only just took me up," Alec told her around a mouthful. "I had some hard times before."

  "Well, you stick by him, love. He'll make an honest fellow of you."

  Alec nodded agreeably, though he still had certain reservations on the matter. Leaving a coin of his own on the table when he'd finished, he set off for the market.

  "All I have to do is go back the way we came in last night," he told himself, setting off on foot. But for all his skill in the wilds, Alec had always found towns rather baffling. One narrow, twisting street looked very much like another in daylight and before long he was so turned around he couldn't even find his way back to the waterfront. Cursing all towns and those who built them, he gave up and decided to ask directions.

  Unfortunately, there were few people about. The fishermen had long since gone out, and most of their women were at the market at this hour, or indoors behind their shutters. He'd passed several gangs of children earlier, but the street he found himself in now came to a dead end in a cluster of warehouses and was quite deserted. Nothing to do, it seemed, but retrace his steps and hope for the best.

  Turning a corner, he spotted a tavern and decided to try his luck there. He'd almost reached it when the door swung open and a knot of Plenimaran marines spilled unsteadily out into the street. There were five of them, staggering and singing drunkenly in their foreign tongue. Spotting Alec before he could duck back out of sight, they ambled over in his direction.

  Giving them a polite nod, Alec tried to hurry past but one caught the edge of his cloak and yanked him roughly into their midst. His captor, a round-faced man with a scar twisting his lower lip, rattled off some

  sort of challenge, punctuating it by poking Alec in the chest with his finger.

  "Stupid drinker!" a taller fellow with a black beard growled, pushing Scar-Lip away and throwing an arm heavily around Alec's shoulders. His accent was thick but he made himself understood. "What my Soldier Brother says, you is a likely looking man-child to be a marine. Why you don't join us up?"

  "I don't think I'd make much of a soldier,"

  Alec
replied. Several of them casually felt their daggers. "What I mean is, I'm not old enough, big enough-like you!"

  A one-eyed soldier fingered the sleeve of Alec's tunic. "Nice, nice. You too good be Soldier Brother?"

  "No!" Alec cried, turning within the circle of men. "I respect Soldier Brothers. Brave men! Let me buy you a drink."

  Without warning, One-Eye and Round-Face pinioned his arms. The bearded soldier tore Alec's purse from his belt, emptying the contents into his hand.

  "Sure, you buy us all many drinks!" he said, grinning as he inspected the coins. Suddenly his face darkened, and he thrust something up before Alec's eyes.

  It was the Skalan coin; he'd had it out the night before and forgotten to put it back in his boot.

  "Where you got this, man-child?" the bearded Plenimaran snarled. "You don't look no filthy Skalan! What you do having filthy bitch queen money?"

  Before Alec could answer, the man punched him hard in the stomach and spat out, "Filthy spy, maybe?"

  Maker's Mercy, not that again!

  Gasping for breath, Alec doubled over and they knocked him down into the half-frozen mud of the street. Someone kicked him in the back and his vision blurred with dazzling sparks of pain. Struggling up onto his knees, he prayed that his cloak hid the motion of his hand as he reached for his dagger.

  "You, Tildus! It's early in the day to be out torturing children, isn't it?"

  Alec couldn't see who'd spoken, but the man's deep voice carried a welcome north country accent. The marines paused in their sport as the bearded man turned.

  "Micum Cavish, greetings! Not torturing at all, just questioning spy."

  "That's no spy, you damned fool, that's my brother's son. Let him go before you strain our friendship!"

  Astonished, Alec craned his neck for a better look at this Micum Cavish. Catching sight of the man, he began to understand.

  Cavish was the hooded man Seregil had spoken with the night before. The hood was thrown back now to reveal a freckled, strongly featured face under a thick mane of auburn hair. Heavy reddish brows overshadowed his pale blue eyes, and an even heavier mustache drooped over the corners of his mouth. His stance was relaxed, but his right hand, hooked casually into his belt, was in easy reach of his sword

  hilt. The fate he was outnumbered five to one was apparently not of the slightest concern to him.

  "You must forgive," Tildus was saying, "there is much drink in us. When we see money of the bitch queen here, we get mad, you see?"

  "Since when does a single coin make anyone a spy?" Micum Cavish's tone was bantering, but his hand remained at his belt. "He got himself 'prenticed to a bard not long ago. They pick up all kinds of coins along the caravan route. Up here silver's silver, no matter whose face it has on it."

  "Mistake, eh?" Tildus grinned tightly, motioning for the others to get Alec on his feet. "Not hurt so much, eh, man-child? You singer, maybe we come hear you sing. Give you good Plenimaran silver! Come, Brothers, we sober up now and not get into some more trouble." With that he gathered his glowering men and lurched off down the alley.

  "Thanks," Alec said as they gathered his strewn money. At closer range, he was surprised to see that the man's hair was sprinkled with silver around the temples. "So you're my uncle Micum?"

  The big swordsman grinned. "First thing that came to mind. It's lucky I happened along when I did, too. That Tildus is a nasty bastard to begin with, and worse when he's drinking. What are you doing wandering around here alone?"

  "I was heading for the market, but I got lost."

  "Just go back up the street, turn left and keep straight 'til you get there." Favoring Alec with a knowing wink, he said, "I think you'll find Aren at the second tailor's to the right of the corner."

  "Thanks again," Alec called after him as Micum strode away. The tall man raised his hand in a brief salute and disappeared around the corner.

  Alec found Seregil busy haggling over the price of some tunics. Taking in Alec's disheveled appearance, he broke off quickly and stepped away from the booth.

  "What have you been up to?"

  Alec's tale was quickly told. Seregil raised an eyebrow at the mention of Micum's intervention but made no further comment.

  "There's a good deal of activity in the square today," he told Alec.

  "Seems we got here just in time. The Plenimarans are leaving tomorrow and the mayor is holding a banquet tonight in their honor, quite a grand affair. He is, however, somewhat at a loss for entertainment. I've just been working out a way to make myself conspicuous."

  "What are you going to do, sing on the steps of his house?"

  "Nothing so obvious. There's a very pleasant fountain right across the street from it. I think that's close enough, don't you?"

  He concluded his business with the tailor and they set off across the bridge to Armorers Street.

  The clamor of hammer on metal there was almost more than Alec could stand, but as they came abreast of a bowyer's shop, he paused, face brightening noticeably.

  "I don't know much about that sort of thing, but I've heard Corda's the best," Seregil remarked.

  Alec shrugged, not taking his eyes from the display of bows. "Corda's are fancy enough, but they don't have the range of Radly's. Either way, though, they're beyond my means. I'd like to stop in at Tallman's, if you don't mind. I don't feel comfortable traveling without a bow."

  "Certainly, but first I want to see Maklin about a sword."

  Somewhere behind the front room of the swordsmith's shop, hammers rang down on steel and Alec had to resist the impulse to put his fingers in his ears.

  Seregil, however, poked happily through the gleaming collection of swords and knives that covered the walls. Most of these weapons were the swordsmith's own work, but one section was given over to an assortment of older weapons traded in for new.

  Seregil paused to look these over, pointing out those of antique or foreign design, as well as certain clever modifications. Alec could scarcely hear him.

  Mercifully, the din lessened suddenly as a portly man in a stained leather apron stepped in through a doorway at the back of the shop, shouting a greeting to Seregil.

  "Well met, Master Windover! What can I do for you today?"

  "Well met, Master Maklin," Seregil shouted back. "I need a blade for my young friend here."

  "For me?" Alec asked in surprise. "But I told you—" The swordsmith turned an appraising eye on Alec. "Ever held a sword before, lad?"

  "No."

  Pulling out a set of calipers, the smith set about measuring Alec's various dimensions. Kneading his arm muscles with a serious expression, Maklin bellowed, "I've just the thing for him!" and disappeared into the workshop again. He returned with a sheathed long sword cradled in the crook of one arm. Presenting the hilt to Alec, he motioned for him to draw it.

  "He has the height and span to wield it,"

  Maklin remarked to Seregil. "It's a good blade, well balanced and easy to cast about with. I made it special for a caravaneer, but the bugger never called back for it. Not overly fancy, but it's a lovely bit of steel. I slaked it in bull's blood during the forging, and you know there's nothing finer than that short of magicking."

  Even Alec could see that the swordsmith was being modest. The gleaming blade felt like a natural extension of his arm. It wasn't light, but he felt a certain natural flow to the movements as Maklin had him hold his arm this way and that. The hilt was wire-bound, with a round, burnished pommel.

  The bronze quillons arched gently away from the hilt, terminating in small flattened knobs carved to look like the tightly curled head of an unopened fern. The blade was unadorned but mirrored the light with a faintly bluish sheen.

  "A pleasing design," Seregil remarked, taking the sword in his hands and fingering the quillons. "Not fancy, as you said, but not cheap-plain, either. See how the quillons curve away from the grip, Alec? Just the thing to snap your enemy's sword out of his hand or break his blade, if you know what you're doing."

&n
bsp; Drawing his own sword, he held the two up together to show Alec the similarity between them. For the first time Alec noted that the quillons of Seregil's weapon, which ended in worn dragon's heads, were notched and scarred with use.

  "It's a fine blade, Maklin. How much?" asked Seregil.

  "Fifty marks with the sheath," the smith replied.

  Seregil paid his price without quibbling and Maklin threw in a sword belt, showing Alec how to wrap it twice around his waist and fix the lacings so that the blade hung at the proper angle against his left hip.

  Back in the street again, Alec tried to thank Seregil.

  "One way or another, you'll repay me,"

  Seregil said, brushing the matter aside. "For now, just promise me that you won't draw it in public until you've learned how to use it. You hold it just well enough for someone to give you a fight."

  As they passed the bowyer shops again, Seregil paused in front of Radly's.

  "There's no point going in there," Alec told him.

  "A good Radly bow costs as much as this sword."

  "Are they worth it?"

  "Well, yes."

  "Then come on. If it comes down to you protecting our lives with it, I for one don't want you using some three-penny stick."

  Alec's heart beat a bit faster as they entered the shop. His father, a competent bowyer himself, had often pointed the place out with uncommon reverence. Master Radly, he'd told his son, had gifts beyond the natural for bow making. Alec had never imagined that he'd enter the place as a customer.

  The master bowyer, a stern, grizzled man, was instructing an apprentice in the finer points of fletching as they came in. Inviting them to look about for a moment, he continued on with his instruction.

  Alec was in his element here, inspecting the array of bows with the same relish that Seregil had obviously felt at the swordsmith's.

  Great longbows, six feet tall unstrung, hung on cords from the ceiling. Crossbows of various types were

  displayed on wide shelves, along with lady's hunters, composite horse bows-nearly every type common in the north. But Alec's eye settled on those known simply as the Black Radly.